Undisclosed Desires (formerly Undercurrent)
by joansin4rabe
Summary: Fresh off the heels of the riot and hostage situation, Governor Joan Ferguson is forced to face her feelings for her Deputy Governor and her sexual identity. NOTE: This story has been largely rewritten since first published. All new Chapter 5 added Aug. 9, 2016.
1. Chapter 1

Control is defined as the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events. For Joan Ferguson, being in control is the ultimate measure of strength and authority. She thrives on it. In her mind, control is everything. To lose control—that is her greatest fear.

As she stands tall in the exercise yard, surveying the damage caused by the inmates of H Block, it becomes clear that her control over the prisoners is slipping, courtesy of Bea Smith. Unlike many Top Dogs before her, Smith is revered by the other women. She underestimated this woman. But it won't happen again.

Joan stares into the pile of burning rubbish and listens to dull roar of the fire as she replays the day's trying event in her mind. Where did she go wrong? What could she has done different to avoid this? The pungent smell of melting mattress foam mixed with plastic stings her nasal cavity, but she does not flinch. Her blood boils as she watches the flames grow. She's been made a fool of in front of the prisoners, her officers, and worse, the pathetic excuse of a General Manager, Derek Channing. No doubt he will derive pleasure out of this incident.

A feeling of rage courses through Joan's body, causing the hairs on her arms to stand on end. The prisoners will pay for making her look like a fool; Bea Smith in particular. Despite her fury, Joan maintains composure. She can not let her emotions get the better of her nor must she appear defeated.

"Governor?" Will Jackson calls as he walks up beside Joan. She does not respond. "Governor?" he repeats louder, this time breaking her focus.

Joan blinks and turns her neck to see Will. His face is painted with uncertainty.

"The women are back in H Block. Should we lift the lockdown?"

Joan turns her head back to the blaze. "I want this extinguished immediately," she instructs. "Once it's out, have some of the inmates clean up this mess. Maybe they'll think twice next time before starting fires."

"What about the lockdown?" he asks as Joan starts to walk away.

"You have your instructions, Mr. Jackson," she replies without stopping or looking back.

With Joan now out of sight, Will crosses his arms and watches the fire. "What a fucking mess," he says, shaking his head. 

* * *

Back inside her office, Joan unfastens the last button on her jacket and settles lowers herself onto the black leather chair. She rests her elbows on the armrests and interlocks her fingers. Leaning back into the chair, she lets out a slow, deep breath before picking up the phone to make a call.

"This is the Governor," she says into the receiver. "The lockdown will remain in effect until further notice. Any prisoners not already in their units are to return immediately." Without a closing remark, she hangs up the phone and within seconds, the order is announced over the public address system.

Attention compound: The prison will remain on lockdown until further notice. All inmates not already in their units are to return immediately.

She turns to her computer and brings up the CCTV footage. As she begins clicking through the surveillance feeds, Channing barges into her office.

"We need to talk," he says with superiority.

Joan keeps her eyes on the computer screen. "There is nothing to talk about, Mr. Channing. The situation has been resolved." Her voice is flat.

"This is far from 'resolved,' Joan. You have a major cock-up on your hands."

"Not now, Derek," she says in a deep tone. She brings her face closer to the monitor and taps the computer mouse twice to zoom in. Her dark eyes narrow at what she sees: Deputy Governor Vera Bennett sitting handcuffed on a bed in one of the isolation unit cells.

Channing watches her with intimidation. "Joan?"

Eyes still locked on the computer monitor, Joan raises a pointed finger in the air at Channing and reaches for her two-way radio.

"This is the Governor. Can someone explain to me why Ms. Bennett is still in the slot?" she snaps, rising to her feet, launching the chair backward. Her long, manicured fingers squeeze the radio as she waits for a reply.

"Sorry, Governor. In all the chaos, it must have been overlooked," one of the officers replies.

Taking a deep breath, she bites her lip. "Your incompetence is nothing short of astounding," she barks. "I am on my way down to get her, so don't bother."

Radio in hand, Joan steps over to Channing, towering above him. "I think we are done here," she says.

Channing shakes his head. "I'm serious, Joan. We need to discuss what happened."

"Well, next time you feel the need to chat," she sneers, "at least have the courtesy to knock before entering my office. Now, if you will excuse me..." With a condescending smirk, Joan motions for Channing to leave.

"I really hope you know what you're doing," he says, walking out.

Joan furrows her brows and watches Channing disappear from view. She buttons the bottom of her jacket and starts for the isolation unit. Her long legs move through the prison corridors with swift determination; her face void of any emotion.

Now comes the difficult part—facing Vera.


	2. Chapter 2

Standing outside the cell door, Joan peers through the rectangular window and sees Vera sitting hunched over on the bed, staring down at the floor. Her shackled hands rest atop her lap. Joan reaches for her radio. 

"Control, come in. This is the Governor," she says, taking two steps back from the door. 

"Go 'head, Governor." 

"I want the video feed to Unit 83 disabled immediately. I will advise when it is to be turned back on." 

"Copy that." 

Joan slides her free hand into her left jacket pocket and brings out a set of master keys. She re-approaches the cell to unlock it. The door creaks as she pulls it open, prompting Vera to look over. Her Deputy's expression is blank, but Joan can sense her anger. 

Joan pulls the keys from the lock and closes the door behind her as she steps into the room. Without a word, she walks up to Vera and unlocks the handcuffs. She slips the keys back into her pocket and sits next to the younger woman, placing the radio on the mattress. Sitting with perfect posture, Joan crosses her hands on her lap and looks at Vera. 

"How are you coping, Vera?" 

Vera gives Joan a sideways glance as she rubs her wrists. "Like you really care." 

Joan tilts her head up and away from Vera. She crosses her legs and takes a deep breath. "I know you are upset, Vera– you've experienced a traumatic event– but I hope you can understand why I made the decision I did," she says in a calm voice looking back at her Deputy. 

Vera frowns and glares at Joan with icy blue eyes. "You put my life at risk, Joan. How can you justify that?" 

"As Governor, Vera, I have to make tough decisions for the greater good," she says, matter-of-fact. "Conceding to the prisoners is a slippery slope. You should understand that." 

"Don't you give me that 'greater good' bullshit," Vera blurts out as she stands up. Her face is red. She leans toward Joan and points to the spot on her neck where the needle pressed against her skin. "They held a fucking syringe to my throat and threatened to inject me," she yells, causing the vein in her left temple to swell. "All you had to do was open the Goddamn door to isolation, but you said, 'No.' Like it was no big deal." 

Joan studies Vera with interest. This once docile woman is seething. She has never seen Vera in such an agitated state, and it fascinates her. Although she is the subject of the other woman's rage, Joan is proud. She knows she is responsible for making Vera a stronger woman. 

"They weren't going to harm you, Vera." 

Vera laughs. "How could you know that for certain? I didn't realize you were psychic!" 

"You're being childish," Joan says, unamused. "I have worked in corrections far longer than you, Vera. This was not the first time inmates have threatened me or my staff in an attempt to gain something. They were testing my mettle, seeing how much they could get away with. I have never buckled to prisoner demands and I am not about to start now." 

"Of COURSE not! The almighty Joan Ferguson must never appear weak," Vera mocks. "I can't believe I was stupid enough to think you cared about me. The only thing you care about is your reputation." 

Joan springs up from the mattress. "Enough! Get ahold of yourself, Vera," she says in a raised tone. She steps forward until the dainty woman is backed against the cinder block wall. Her eyes flicker with an intensity Vera hasn't seen before. "You have no idea how difficult it was to stand there and watch the woman I love being brutalized by filthy thugs. I felt powerless!" she shouts, slamming her right palm against the wall. 

In realizing her Freudian slip, Joan takes an abrupt step back. Vera's eyes widen in disbelief. Did the Governor just say what she thinks she did? 

Since Joan arrived at Wentworth, Vera found herself drawn to the older woman. Her assertiveness, confidence and intellect were qualities Vera fast admired. This initial admiration blossomed into a physical attraction, and over the past several months, the women have developed a bond that goes beyond the realms of ordinary supervisor-employee relations. There is an unacknowledged chemistry between them, one that both women would deny if confronted. Rather than recognizing their mutual attraction, the Governor and Deputy Governor have engaged in carefully choreographed dance, each dropping subtle hints through verbal and nonverbal cues. 

Joan crosses her hands over her stomach and glances at the small cell window. "The woman I love working with," she begins. 

"What?" Vera asks with confusion. 

Joan redirects her attention to Vera. "It was difficult for me to watch the woman I love working with being brutalized," she says in a nonchalant manner. "You are a wonderful Deputy Governor; a true asset to this department. The last thing I want is to see you in harm's way." 

She walks over to the window and examines the various inmate etchings on the glass. "I value you, Vera. I wanted nothing more than to run to your aid in that moment, but I could not do that. As Governor, I must react to situations with a level head." She turns and takes slow steps across the concrete floor until she is once again standing in front of her Deputy. "I cannot let my emotions dictate the decisions I make. If you cannot understand that, you will never be ready to take on the Governorship." 

Mouth agape, Vera looks at the Governor with irritation. "Are you serious?" 

"We have nothing further to discuss," Joan replies as she retrieves the two-way radio from the mattress. Heading for the door, she turns to face Vera. "I suggest you stop into medical for an evaluation." 

With a firm tug to her jacket, Joan walks out of the unit. Vera slides down the wall to sit on the floor. She leans her head back and sighs. Not far outside, she can hear Joan instructing the security office to reactivate the video feed to that unit. She shuts her eyes and listens as the sound of Joan's heels clicking against the floor fades away.


	3. Chapter 3

Joan has always been able to separate her work life from her personal life—until today. Despite her best efforts to shake it off, the day's events have followed her home. And she's angrier now than she was before.

Still in uniform, she stands in front of her bedroom mirror and rests her palms on the red mahogany dresser for leverage. She lowers her head and closes her eyes. The veins in her temples are throbbing, and she has an excruciating headache.

Whenever stressed, Joan works out her frustration at the fencing studio. The sport has proven to be an effective method for alleviating stress since her teenage years. But the studio is closed Monday through Wednesday, and it's a Tuesday. This compounds her frustration.

Opening her eyes, Joan cranes her neck from side to side. She looks into the mirror with unforgiving eyes and glares at herself with disapproval. Joan is her own worst enemy, and right now, she is furious at herself.

"You are a disgrace," she growls through clenched teeth. Curling her upper lip, she turns her back to the mirror and reaches her hand behind her head to let down her hair. She shakes her dark mane out with both hands and walks to the closet. She pulls open the double doors, unbuttons her jacket and hangs it with care on a wooden hanger in its designated spot.

Joan's closet is meticulous. It's comprised of tidy shelves, drawers and hanging racks. On the left are two tiers of racks: Uniform shirts and jackets hang from the top; trousers and skirts hang below. In the middle of the closet stands a tie holder followed by two shelves and three drawers. To the right is a rack for casual clothing, organized by color, with shirts separated from slacks. Underneath that is a solid wood shoe shelf.

Her obsessive compulsive behavior manifests itself into many facets of her day-to-day life, including her dressing and undressing routine. The order in which she removes her uniform is one she has followed for years without deviation: Jacket, tie, trousers, tights, and shirt.

After hanging her tie, Joan unhooks the clasp inside her trousers and unzips them. She slides her thumbs inside the pants at her hips and pushes down, keeping a grip on the waist band as the fabric glides past her black cotton underwear and down her firm legs. Reaching her ankles, Joan lifts her right leg out and then the left. She folds the pants along the crease and smooths out any wrinkles.

She sits on the edge of her queen bed and crosses her right leg over the left to remove her knee-high nude tights. She switches legs and removes the other.

Joan begins unbuttoning her shirt, starting at the collar. Her slender fingers move down the line from button to button with ease, slowly revealing a black satin bra underneath the immaculate white shirt. When she releases the last button, the shirt falls open just enough to expose a deep line of cleavage between her ample breasts—a feature that is well hidden by her uniform.

She slips out of her shirt and fetches the charcoal-colored bathrobe from the closet. She walks into the master bathroom and turns the shower lever toward the "H." A hot shower may help wash away her feelings of failure. 

* * *

Wearing a three-quarter-sleeve navy blue shirt, black pants and custom black suede smoking slippers, Joan makes her way downstairs. Her hair, still damp, is pin straight and swept over her right shoulder. Her headache has subsided and she is more relaxed now. But the day's events still linger in her mind.

She makes her way into the kitchen, which boasts a modern industrial design, and takes a tomato from the refrigerator for a tuna and spinach salad. Joan rinses the tomato in the sink and pulls out a cutting board. As she begins slicing the tomato, an image of Vera being held hostage by the prisons flashes into her mind, causing her to cut the tip of her left index finger.

"Fucking hell," she shouts, tossing the knife into the sink. Joan curls her lips inward, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Lips pursed, she opens her eyes and slides over to the sink. She positions her hand over the sink and examines the laceration in the light.

Using her right thumb and index finger, Joan squeezes the wounded finger. She watches with stony eyes as crimson fluid rushes out and splatters into the stainless steel sink below. When the tip of her finger begins to tingle, she releases the pressure and opens the faucet.

She holds her finger under the faucet and, within seconds, the water swirling around the drain turns a pale red. Once the water runs clear again, Joan closes the tap and wraps her finger in a paper towel. She pulls the first aid kit out from a nearby cabinet and cleans the open flesh with an alcohol pad. A burning sensation shoots through her finger, causing the wound to throb. Joan does not flinch. She rubs a dab of antibiotic ointment on her finger and wraps it in gauze.

Annoyed, Joan brings out a brand new bottle of Russian Standard vodka from the cooler. She unscrews the cap, fills a shot glass and raises it with her right hand. She brings the rim of the glass to her lips and, in one swift motion, cocks her head back and downs the alcohol, just as she learned from her father.

"Drink it fast," he once advised. "Vodka is not for sipping."

She slams the empty glass on the counter top and fills it once more. "Za tebya, papa," she mutters, bringing the rim to her lips again. She throws back the liquor and exhales through her nose—another "trick" she learned from her father.

Looking down at the empty glass on the counter, Joan's eyes wander back to the tomato and cutting board. She scrunches her nose in disgust; there are droplets of blood scattered around the tomato. She sweeps the tomato into the trash bin and places the blood-contaminated cutting board in the sink. She sprays the board with bleach and wipes down the counter with a disinfectant wipe.

Her tuna salad will have to do without tomato tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

After a disappointing meal, Joan retires to the living room with a glass of red wine. She strides across the room to the built-in bookshelf where she houses a collection of classical records. Second to fencing, Joan's greatest passion is music.

She trails her free hand across the spines of the records, studying each with a selective eye. Taking a sip of wine, she sets the glass on a nearby coaster and pulls out her record of choice. She places the vinyl record on the turntable with care and positions the needle. Within seconds, the first movement of "L'inverno" from Vivaldi's Le Quattro Stagioni fills her living room.

Joan closes her eyes as the music builds and surrenders to the sound of fervid strings. She begins to move her hands in time the music, as a conductor does. Overcome by the music, her movements become more pronounced. Her long arms dance through the air with vigor and she sways back and forth. She learned these movements by watching her mother, a violinist, composer and once distinguished conductor, on stage.

A perfectionist with a Type A personality, Joan's mother was brilliant. Having grown up in a prominent Vienna family, she developed an achievement-driven mentality at an early age. She was fiercely competitive and motivated by a desire to be regarded as the best of the best. These were qualities she worked to instill in Joan. But they were also the qualities that fed her mother's burgeoning superiority complex, and later, caused the woman to snap.

When the music ends, Joan opens her eyes. A faint smile crosses her lip; she is at ease. She lowers the volume of the music and pulls out a copy of Dostoyevsky's "Crime and Punishment" from the bookshelf. She reclaims her glass of wine and settles on the black three-seat leather sofa.

No more than a minute after Joan cracks open the book, the doorbell rings. She looks down at her watch—it's a quarter past nine. Setting the novel on the end table, she polishes off the remaining wine in her glass and starts for the door. The tension so only just rid herself of returns like a tidal wave crashing to shore as she opens the door.

"Ah, Ms. Bennett. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Vera's face is stern. "We need to talk."


	5. Chapter 5

Standing in the doorway with a hand on her hip, Joan eyes her Deputy from head to toe. The younger woman is wearing a white button-down tunic with dark jeans and black flats. Her wavy light brown hair falls just past her shoulders, and a cerulean scarf is wrapped around her neck, accentuating her heather blue eyes—Joan's favorite feature.

"Are you going to invite me in?"

The corners of Joan's mouth turn up. "No."

Vera pushes her way inside the foyer and crosses her arms, shifting her weight onto one leg. "That's the Joan Ferguson Word of the Day, isn't it?"

"Do come in and make yourself comfortable," Joan sneers, closing the door behind her. She takes slow steps toward her Deputy and looks down at the woman with an arched eyebrow, exuding authority. "If you are here to throw another tantrum and blame me for your misfortune, save your breath."

Vera rolls her eyes. "I now know better than to try and make you see the error of your ways."

Joan narrows her gaze. "Then what is so important you felt it was appropriate to disturb me at my home at this hour?"

"I need to know…" The younger woman takes a breath. "Is what you said earlier true?"

"Forgive me, Vera." Joan's voice hardens with sarcasm, one of her greatest defense mechanisms. "But I seem to have forgotten every word of a conversation that transpired more than eight hours ago."

This is a lie. She remembers the conversation in perfect detail, and she knows what Vera is eluding to.

Despite an overwhelming urge to fire back with a sarcastic comment of her own, Vera bites her tongue and smiles. She will not let Joan antagonize her.

"I didn't come here to argue, Joan." She straightens up and takes a deep breath. "Do you love me?"

Joan's stomach drops. She is not equipped to have this conversation. She was conditioned from an early age to be logical instead of emotional, to think instead of feel, and to follow her brain instead of her heart.

Keeping a straight face, Joan comes up with a solution: Trivialize the question.

"Where is this coming from?" An amused smirk tugs at her lips.

Vera's face hardens. "In the slot, you referred to me as the woman you love."

Joan shakes her head. "I believe I referred to you as the woman I love working with."

"Right." Vera laughs. "You added that bit as an afterthought in a clear attempt to hide the truth."

Joan drops her jaw and lifts her eyebrows in a mock gasp. "I had no idea you were a psychologist," she scoffs. "You and that Ms. Westfall should go into practice together."

Vera swallows her frustration and ignores the comment. "Did you not say it was difficult for to watch the woman you love being brutalized?"

Joan folds her arms. "You are taking my words out of context."

"God! Who are you trying to fool? It's obvious you're in denial about your sexual—"

Joan interrupts, wagging a pointed finger. "Let me remind you to whom you are speaking." Her tone is unforgiving. "Today was rather exhausting, Vera, and I am in no mood to listen to your psychological musings."

A flush of frustration creeps into Vera's cheeks. "You know what's exhausting? This ridiculous game we're playing!" She turns away and paces the floor trying to collect her thoughts. "All of the suggestive looks, the coy smiles and the gentle touches—you've been drawing me in for so long." She straightens herself and walks back to the Governor, stepping closer than before. "Is this tree ever going to bear fruit, or are you just fucking with me for your own amusement?"

Joan glances down at her Deputy with a withering look. She does not respond.

Vera throws her hands up in exasperation. "I don't know why I bother." She covers her face and sighs. "Maybe you're not capable of love," she mutters, rubbing her forehead.

Joan lets out an exaggerated huff. "Is that correct?"

"If you knew what it meant to actually love someone," Vera's voice tightens, "you would have done whatever you could to protect me, not put my life in further danger. If someone I loved were in harm's way, I would protect them at any cost."

"Dammit, Vera, let it go!" Joan snaps, balling her fists. Turning her back, she rakes a hand through her hair and draws in a deep breath.

Joan knows there is truth to Vera's words, and it frustrates her. While she is more than capable of love, it does not come easy to her. Joan never saw what love looked like growing up; her parents did not foster an affectionate environment. This has made it difficult for her to express tenderness, affection and intimacy.

When it comes to love, Joan likens herself to a clumsy child. She has always felt awkward trying to convey her feelings, and because of it, has shied away from these experiences. The few times she tried embracing these emotions only ended in tragedy, leaving a bad taste in her mouth.

"I do not need to defend my actions," Joan continues in a low voice, "but let me educate you." Having regained composure, she faces her Deputy once more. "Had I made the slightest indication that I cared for you, it would have put a permanent target on your back."

She takes a step forward and extends an arm to caresses Vera's neck. Her expression softens. "Once the prisoners know your weakness, they will exploit it any chance they get. I had to make a difficult decision in the short term in order to protect you in the long term."

Vera's body tingles at the Governor's gentle touch. She squeezes her eyes shut and brings a hand up to meet Joan's. She presses the older woman's warm palm into her neck and sighs. "That's not enough," she whispers, opening her eyes. She releases Joan's hand and steps back.

Joan's eyes enlarge with disbelief. How could she be so foolish to open herself up to rejection? She knows better. In the back of her mind, she hears her father's thick Russian accent: Emotions make you weak. Her upper lip curls as her temper flares.

"What more do you want from me, Vera? I am at a loss." Angry and embarrassed by her complete lapse in judgement, Joan storms off into the kitchen.

Vera scurries after her. "I want you to tell me that you love me." She reaches out and grabs the back of the Governor's arm.

Joan whirls around mid-step and draws her lips back in disgust. "This is pathetic." She shakes Vera off. "You sound like a hormonal teenage girl begging for affection."

"No more pathetic than a grown woman who is afraid to face the truth about herself!" The muscles in Vera's neck tense, and a swollen vein bulges near her left temple.

A scowl washes over Joan's face. She lowers her chin and looks up at the other woman with fierce intensity. The arch of her eyebrows appear sharper from this angle. "I think you had better leave now, Ms. Bennett."

Vera does not back down. "Not until I get an answer." She leans closer to the older woman, pinning her with her eyes. "Do you love me, yes or no?"

"This has gone on long enough," Joan dictates, looking at her watch. "You have officially exhausted my patience and my hospitality."

"Why can't you just tell me that you love me?"

Joan slams her palms onto the kitchen island. "It would be a lie!" She leans her head back and lets out a slow breath. "That is not who I am."

Vera steps closer and places a hand on the small of Joan's back. The older woman's body stiffens at her touch. "I know this isn't easy…" she pauses and looks at Joan, but the older woman is staring ahead, avoiding eye contact. "I struggled to accept my own feelings, so I can only imagine how difficult this is for you."

Joan breaks her distant gaze and looks down at the younger woman with certainty. "There is nothing for me to accept," she says, matter-of-fact. "I care for you, professionally. You have great potential." She turns her head to again stare off into the distance. "But I do not love you. Nor will I ever love you."

Vera walks around to the other side of the island to try and establish eye contact. "I don't believe you." Her expression is pleading.

The Governor blinks and shifts her focus onto the younger woman. Her eyes are emotionless dark pools, and the corners of her mouth are turned down. She appears distant and unfamiliar. It makes Vera uneasy.

"You are a naive, insecure little girl who wants nothing more than to feel loved and wanted." Joan's voice is cruel. "Only a feeble-minded person could love a pitiful creature like you."

"Why are you doing this, Joan?" Vera is despondent. She chews nervously on the inside of her cheek.

"Speaking of feeble minds..." Joan bends forward, leaning over the counter. "Your best bet is to crawl back into bed with Matthew Fletcher. He might not be as...nimble as he once was…" She pauses and curls her lips into a smirk. "But beggars cannot be choosers."

Vera's shoulders sag. The last glimmer of hope in her eyes is replaced by sorrow and regret. "You're despicable."

"Then leave." Joan shrugs, unrepentant. "Go cry about it to Mr. Fletcher. I am sure he will be delighted to see you, assuming he remembers you. Or his own name, for that matter."

Vera's small frame begins to tremble. "Fuck you." Her eyes glisten with tears as she watches Joan, waiting for any sign of apology or remorse. But there is nothing.

With a resigned smile, Vera starts for the front door. Joan's gaze follows the younger woman as she retreats. But before she disappears from view, Vera pauses and looks back at the older woman from over her shoulder.

"You deserve to be alone with your misery." Her voice shakes as she chokes back tears.

Joan's detached demeanor gives way to a forlorn frown. She casts her eyes downward and winces; it's agonizing to see Vera upset. She wants nothing more than to sweep Vera into her arms and press her lips onto hers. But at the same time, Joan believes she is doing what needs to be done for the greater good.

From the corner of her eye, Joan watches as the younger woman's feet disappear from view. And then, she hears the faint click of the door latch locking into place. Vera is gone. She has successfully chased away the woman she loves—and the only person who may have been able to love her.

Joan locks the deadbolt and positions her back against the door. She rests her head back and lets out a slow sigh.

"This is for the best."


End file.
